Walking along, I spoke openly with Crow, "Dad says ghosts are people who die suddenly, and they don't realise they're dead. He saw the tall-man when he was my age, said he looked sad like he was looking for something he'd lost and couldn't find." I stopped and looked up, "Crow, did the tall-man die all of a sudden?"

"Caw."

His yes motivated me. It gave me a springboard into his identity – I could ask about people who'd died suddenly on the farm or at the college and deduce from there.

Upping my pace to match Crow, I ran with him into the farmyard, stopping in the middle to watch him circle, scrutinising his territory. My heart sank when he flew off without a caw goodbye.

When he didn't settle on the corner of the byre, his observational post, I knew the tall-man wasn't here; instead, humans probably were. Yet the place was deathly quiet, especially given a whole herd of cattle had been milked a short while before.

Welcoming the quiet, I thought with clarity. I wondered what the tall-man may have lost in the farming space in which I stood. Was it a personal item?

When Mam lost her engagement ring, she couldn't rest. I recalled the look of sorrow mingled with panic as she ran out the door to retrace her steps. I also remembered the joy as she came racing back, proudly brandishing the ring on her finger. "It was on the sink behind the bar; I'd taken it off to wash my hands," she exclaimed, glowing with relief. Looking around, I took in the enormity of the space, the number of buildings and out-houses, offices, and hay sheds. Eventually, I settled on the byre. If I was to find any lost personal items, I had to start

somewhere. I turned towards the milking parlour to start my search. 

......

This time, I climbed through the side window un-encumbered by any grabbing uncles. It was warm and smelt of cow pooh and sour milk, a combination that didn't bother me, now that I'd become accustomed to country flavours.

My search began by walking along the concrete milking booths. I soon realised it was hard to find what you don't know you're looking for. But I continued, looking for a glint or a glimmer of light amongst the concrete that might lead me to a tall-man clue.

But my search stopped when I heard a sound.

A shuffling.

Instinctively I called out, "Is that you, Uncle Tommy?" mindful my joker uncle might try to startle me again.

"Tommy!" I repeated, my voice raised.

The shuffling continued.

Looking towards its source, my eyes settled on the main metal doors. 

"Hello, who's there?"

When there came no reply, I became spooked.

Now, despite my extreme youth, I was a horror film aficionado, so I was acutely aware of how sounds could be used as tropes to trick and scare. I knew a shuffle and a rustle could become the jolting jump of a rat or the flapping bolt of a bat.

Thus, I listened with an experienced ear.

The shuffle came again – its sound dragging and heavy, not that of a rat or a bat.

I walked toward the door with slow, sure steps, constantly glancing to my left to make sure my way in was my way out should I need to flee.

In front of the doors, I noted a narrow gap through which I could peek. Leaning in, I froze – another eye peered back at me.

The shock of a bump and rattle threw me backwards.

Searing pain shot through me as my backside smacked on the hard concrete floor. But there was no time for tears or fears as the door rattled again, this time accompanied by an angry male voice – "Come here to me you. When I get me hands on you, I'll throttle ya, you little fucker ya!"

It wasn't Uncle Tommy's voice, nor was it any voice I recognised. No, it was the sound of a man who wanted to avenge my trespass – I heard the murder in his mind.

Fear finally found me.

I scrambled to my feet, the fright making me fumble and tumble back on my bottom again.

But a massive thump of the doors put a rocket up my backside – I launched myself at my way in and quite literally flew out, landing in a bed of bramble and nettles.

The nettles stung, and the brambles scratched, but self-preservation dulled the pain. I closed my eyes, lay still, and played dead.

Playing dead was fruitless. After a few minutes of motionless silence, I opened a tentative eye. All I saw was bramble, so I opened my second eye and lifted my head, careful to cause no identifying rustle.

A flash of red caught my attention – I lifted my head further.

Horror engulfed me when the realisation of what I saw hit me – the unmistakable sight of Maria's red wellington boots coming up the lane towards the milking parlour.

Instinctively I made to jump up and save my sister from the same fate as mine, but the sound of her voice halted me, "leave him alone, you, don't hurt him!"

An icy pick spiked my heart, while a dull thump hurt my head.

For the tone in which my beloved sister delivered her plea to save me hurt; because it was said without conviction, instead her tone was cheery and light-hearted.

I waited for his response, but none came. Instead, Maria's high- pitched scream cut through the farm. I jumped up in time to see her fleeing – with the man in hot pursuit.

A weapon, I needed a weapon. Seeing nothing with which to hit the man, I raced into the farm. My delay had served me poorly, they had fled, and I had no idea in which direction my fleeing sister and her harm-intending pursuer had gone.

My ears pulsed to the sound of my heartbeat, hindering my ability to listen for Maria and her pursuer. But her scream cut through my beats, and my head spun to its source – the avenue leading up and into St Patrick's College, a local boarding school.

The college was a magisterial building, imbued with a Dickensian sense of story and authority. The place scared me, but I had to go there to save my sister – I sped off towards the scholarly space.

I'd barely made it to the avenue when I was stopped in my tracks by another scream – it came from Maria, but this was a different sound.

Although the sound was piercing, a lilt at the end seemed to lead to laughter.

Listening intently, I deduced that Maria's scream had somehow transmuted into hysterical peals of laughter.

To my mind, this was impossible; the sound of fear could not become the sound of joy. I stared at my feet, puzzled.

My sister had changed, and now, I had a good idea what had caused her difference. But I couldn't, wouldn't say it – not yet.

......

Maria's laughter was accompanied by rushing footfall through gravel and foliage, and almost as quickly as it started, it stopped. The quiet caused me to look up, "Gerard, what you doing here?" asked Maria.

She looked dishevelled, her face flushed red from exertion.

"I'm looking for the tall-man," I answered. Her appearance startled me, for the lids of her eyes were painted in a blue shadow, emphasising the pale blue of her eyes, and her eyelashes appeared thicker, blacker.

She looked at me strangely, as if she were nervous, "Go on then, go looking for him in the woods," she said, pointing behind me.

I looked back towards the woods, and when I looked back to my sister, I jolted to see the farmhand sidle up behind her. My hand shot instinctively forward in a protective gesture, "Don't hurt us!" I shouted.

Maria stared at me, her brow furrowed, "Don't be daft, Gerard, he's not going to hurt us," she said, looking at the farmhand with an apologetic expression.

I didn't hold back, "I was in the byre; he said he was going to throttle me when he got his hands on me. He was banging on the door and everything." My rant was swiftly halted by Maria's pronouncement – "Stop it, Gerard!"

I stared at them, standing side-by-side yet apart.

My sister looked embarrassed by me, while the farmhand seemed amused.

"Why are you laughing?" I asked him, confused.

He walked towards me; I took a step back, halting him, "You're like a wee freckened dog."

That's when I noticed his hair; it glistened and shone in the sunshine.

Maria joined him, her smile matching his, "He was talking to a stray cow Gerard, not you."

I began to heat up, flushing with foolishness. I lowered my head to hide my reddening face, "Sorry, I thought you were talking to me," I managed to mumble.

Doing a swift about-turn, I sauntered towards the woods. Maria called after me, "Gerard, are you alright?"

"Yeah," I replied, forcing nonchalance through clenched teeth.

......

The sight of his hair stayed with me as I wandered towards the woods. He had Bruce Lee hair, just like the posters on Maria's bedroom wall in Manchester.

I called him the boy with Bruce Lee hair and entered the woods –

alone again, naturally.